292. The riderless horse

Silently, the tear squeezed from her eye down her granite cheek. Janine saw Matt, not the football. She saw his agile leap high above his opponent, taking the mark. In her mind’s eye, she saw the play-on and the run-around into the open goal.

Then, into view swam his boot backwards in the stirrup, the rider-less horse following the casket, the ranks of fellow soldiers stepping, in line, behind. Her face cracked only when her mind replayed the arrival of the sombre Fairlane, and she watched her own black-shawled head step onto the carpet.

Her stony face dissolved, her fiercely erect backbone became as jelly. She collapsed onto the lawn, berating its perfection with her clenched fists. All she had was loss. He was lost to her. The Blackhawk was downed in the dark of night, in the muffle of battle. And he was lost to her.

And for what?

291. The stool

He had been at the bar all afternoon, and now the twilight was coming down. He did not appear to be drunk, melancholy yes. He had said little, other than to order his next drink. Red wine – a shiraz from the Coonawarra. He liked potato crisps, Salt and vinegar crisps. Mostly he just rocked back on a leg of his bar stool, tapping a coaster in his left hand. Contemplative.

Every so often, he would glance sideways to catch the big screen in the corner. A match between Manchester United and Aston-Villa. From his reaction, one could hardly say the outcome mattered to him. He paid scant attention to the barmaid, other than to grunt out his order. He did not spare as much as a glance to the woman on his right, eating fillet mignon with salad and fries.

Poking out of his breast pocket was a hand-written letter.

290. The power of the elemental

Water had always held a fascination for Francine, it had a gravitational pull there was no escaping. Today it was beautifully crafted water, water at the behest of mankind in his built environment. However, just the slightest hint of that tinkle had the power to transport Francine way back; back to the rickety wooden bridge on that last curve before the farm.

In those immediate post-war years everything seemed instantly aged, and weary and in a state of dishabille. When her mother’s silent weeping threatened to overwhelm her, Francine would drift to this bridge and its stepped pathway to the meandering stream below. Lined with she-oaks, and littered with skimming rocks, this was a refuge, a shed in the great outdoors. As the wind set to its whistling, and the sun glinted and dappled on the slowly moving waters, Francine reached her own silent accommodation with emotions beyond her comprehension.

289. Rapprochement

Whistling down the laneway, the wind encouraged Amelie to hug her jacket to her – as much a psychological reaction as it was physical. She felt in need of battening down the hatches, of indulging in self-preservation. It had been a difficult period of time, and it showed. The gulf between them was still apparent, but at least they were side-by-side, and heading in the same direction.

The cobblestones beneath her feet brought the immediacy of touch, an intense feeling of discord that she willed to continue. As they walked, in an uncomfortable silence, through the archway, Amelie was assaulted by intense aromas from the myriad of small kitchens attached to the outdoor markets. She took a deep breath, a precursor to a comment, but immediately thought better of it.

She glanced sideways, to catch Milly glancing sideways. Amelie could not contain a hesitant pucker at the edge of her mouth.

288. Two Terry stories

Fishy business goin’ down

He wiped his sweaty palms on the rear of his jeans. If he did it once, he did it a hundred times. This was the part of the operation that Terry knew would create the most angst. He was getting the hang of fishing, although he was hoping to reel in more than just the evening meal. It was all the other possibilities that put the wind up him.

They had told him again and again, that all he would have to do is pluck the containers from the water. None of his business how they got there. He could see his chain question his commitment the more he queried the process. There was no reason for the authorities to find him of interest. He had a clean slate. He had fished at this spot each Thursday for a year. He needed just this one shot at the big time.

Terry’s shed

Shifting his weight from leg to leg, Terry attempted to clear the pins-and-needles from his right leg. He had reloaded his hook with a fleshy morsel of white-bait, enough to temp the entire school of yellow bream Terry knew to be attracted to this bay by the World War 2 ferry scuttled not long after the bombing of the Kuttabul.

Not being a diver, Terry had to take his neighbour’s opinion as gospel on this point. Roy had been scuba diving various locations in the harbour and just outside the heads for over a decade now. Roy was a great bloke to have as a neighbour, the sort to give you the shirt off his back. He would have been here today had it not been for the unfortunate episode of the bottle neck.

Terry was jerked back into the here-and-the-now by a sharp series of tugs on his line.

287. Slow fade to black

As she went down, this was the last scene that Marie-Louise registered. Her head, streaming with blood from the bullet that grazed her right temple, in perceptively missed the corner of the concrete planter. However, as she executed her death roll, her right arm cracked the edge, fracturing her wrist and dislodging the diamond necklace clasped in the palm of her hand. The broken wrist was the least of her troubles.

By the time she hit the gravel, her eyes were glassy, and her breathing non-existent. A thick, red ooze of blood puddled beneath her from the second bullet which lodged deep within her chest, creating mayhem upon entry, disintegrating her chest plate and tearing her renown bosoms to shreds. Her beige, silk ensemble purchased only last month from a grand magasin on the Champs Elysées, was of use to no-one.

The beauty of the planting was lost on her.

286. Window shopping

Some people dream dreams secure enough to move into. Not every person, for dreams are difficult imaginings to contain. They run and jump, they change shape depending on the angle of light. A dream can evaporate suddenly and no matter how high you jump, you cannot grab hold of its string. It eludes you.

Annie held down a solid job in the city. A job that afforded the luxury of a modest two-bedder in an inner-suburb, should she so dream.

Annie wasn’t a dreamer in the Women’s Weekly sense, where dreams are there to taunt rather than touch. Nor were her dreams in the faux-inspirational vein of a Kennedy eulogy where they ‘dream things that never were and say why not’. Oh no, Annie’s dreams were tinged with a refreshing streak of pragmatism. Annie was a grounded person who balanced her rights with her responsibilities; her dreaming with her achieving.

285. They do things differently nowadays

Heloise and Paul did not aspire to a mcmansion in the ‘burbs. Indeed, they did not aspire. They were not acquisitive, but, along with many of their generation, were of the experiential classes. And the chattering classes, that endless commentariat on other people’s lives.

They worked hard during the week, long hours at a job that paid them well and gave them personal satisfaction. They well invested the aspirations of their parents, although said parents were hard pressed to concur with the trajectory. Heloise and Paul were appreciative, but refused to duplicate a life-style that had run its course. They plotted by different stars.

They were content with a modest bungalow, or small walk-up apartment deep within the chaos of multicultural urbanity. Hence, we find them here, at Five-Ways, taking brunch on a Sunday early in Spring, their table laden with Bircher Muesli, couscous and snippets of green, coffee steaming.

284. Last steps

As her cane beat out a rhythmical tap upon the footpath between the Eglise Saint Etienne and the Bibliotheque Saint Genevieve, Camille did not see the shape lurking in the shadow of the Pantheon. As she did most Sunday mornings on her path back from the boulangerie, she wove her way between the tourists, many of them with no more than a ‘pardon’ or a ‘merci, madam’.

Camille made her way along Rue Clovis to where it intersected with Rue Descartes. Inexplicably, she turned to her left instead of to her right, and was immediately engulfed with confusion.

She had not noticed the lithe shape behind her, nor heard his soft padding. He was onto her, knocking her cane out from beneath her and rudely tugging her satchel from her shoulder. The croissants, still warm from the ovens, tumbled onto the cobblestones, joining the scarlet drops of still warm blood.

Actions speak louder than words

How do you chat about
the wilful ending of human life?
Not the murder of another
for who would want to chat about that?
But the sort of ending where
enough is simply enough.
One’s own end.

Being a burden is not
a prospect that pleases.
Nor is living out one’s life
swathed in the nauseating
aroma d’institution.
I reserve the right to call
‘Time gentlemen, please’.

Is there something to be learnt
from seeing the dreary process
through to the bitter end?
Is a life-lesson for my child
sufficient reason to put them through it?
The routine visits, the crushing burden of guilt
borne by the sandwiched generation.

People spend years trying to give life meaning.
Reason evaporates quickly from the vantage point
Of a wheel-chair driven by a nurses-aide.
Direction is difficult to uncover
waiting hours in the dining room for the midday meal.
Purpose is elusive when a day
is stolen by endless hours of blessed sleep.

Would a one-way flight to Switzerland
do the trick, or be an administrative nightmare?
If I stockpile pills, will my stash be uncovered?
A gun or a knife shows a lack of imagination.
Falling under a bus is taking the driver
hostage to one’s own sense of entitlement.
So much for the profound angles.

How far ahead should I give warning?
As no one else can be involved,
I must have the mental and physical capacity.
Which involves going early.
So it is a matter of picking the apogee of
the ride of one’s life, having a bag packed
and remembering to cancel the morning paper.

Written in response to a prompt ('Softy-spoken bullets; Hardly-spoken lips') from the Tenth Daughter of Memory, a writers' collective

283. The purple leash

I had a purple leash, when I was a child. I had a purple leash. My purple leash clipped to a bridle, a pale pink bridle. I pawed the ground as I was strapped into my harness, my pink bridle with its purple leash.

There were buckles in my bridle, my pretty pale pink bridle. Shiny buckles. Tiny straps went through the shiny buckles. Tiny straps that curled at the ends. They waved on my chest.

The leash jerked me to a stop. I could pummel my legs, but could not move - except in an arc, an arc around my paranoid mother. I think it lucky my bridle had no bit.

Come here, little girl; this way, not that. You can run, but you cannot hide beneath that car. Be careful of that strange man. Don’t pick that up; you don’t know where it has been. Stay close by.

Reading the signs

I chalk the sums for the lesson across the black-board. I am momentarily interrupted by a flash of reflection in the long bank of windows to my left. It is not until the next occurrence that my brain unscrambles the reversed, silent, slow-motion image. A sandshoed boy leaps up the rear wall of the class-room. My back stands frozen. I know not what to do. Turning around is not an option. An intelligent response is required, not barked discipline.

A new vibe had filled the air. Although 34 backs were bent, and nearly the same number of black-leads were working the sums, a hum of expectation infused the room. To buy time, I continue to add the next long-division to the morning's list. Mesmerised, my eye registers the shower of powder as it cascades from the moving stick of chalk. Flash. And again, flash. The boy silently leaps. This is an initiation. There is an aim, I realise. As I scratch the final digit for the tenth long-division, I voice my intention to turn.

'Okay, Year 4, you now have twenty minutes to complete this exercise. Show all working.'

The vibe turns to barely audible groan, their arched backs slump. My perambulate of the room, takes me past a pair of newly whitened sandshoes, tucked around the leg of a chair. I guessed who was calling the shots here, and it wasn't Robbie. I turned, leaning against the rough brick courses of the rear wall. My eyes were trained on young Mr Englund, second from the front, left. When he cast a furtive glance, as I knew he could not resist, I eased the white chalk through the mortar groove about ten courses high. His sight tracked from my eye, to the thin line of white, then back to my eye. Exposed, he retreated to the set task. Checkmate? I should be so lucky. No point setting him double the work-load, as even one was beyond his ken.

'Doris, what is the drum with Robbie Jones at the moment?'

Even I thought Mrs Shirley to be a bit of a tartar, and did not enjoy her tug on my sleeve as I entered the staff-room for elevenses. She regaled me with a litany of infractions, some downright humourous, others of a more substantial gravity. I had learnt, as term eased into term, to listen and to nod, hearing her out, acknowledging her experience, if not her wisdom. I realised Robbie was becoming a handful, getting a reputation. I figured this to be his aim. Why else be at Glen Englund's beck and call? Why else do his bidding? Englund was loading the gun and, like desperate outsiders before him, Robbie was pulling the trigger.

'Get his parents in for a chat, sooner rather than later, please' and with that she vacated the small room, leaving her staff to their boorish whinges and eternal regrets. As she glided out to the verandah, however, talk moved from Gestetner ink and psychological testing, to football ladders and last night's tellie. I'd never had to do this before - confront a parent. With Robbie being newer to the school than me, I had never set eyes on his family. Something told me that neither had Mrs Shirley. A sense of dread lodged in the pit of my stomach.

'Robbie, would you get your Mum or Dad to pop in for a chat on Thursday afternoon, please?'

A deathly hush enveloped the room. I was caught by surprise. I had not expected this reaction. To be frank, I had not expected any reaction. Thirty three pairs of eyes were trained on me. I shifted my buttock where it perched on the front of the wobbly table. Just one tousle of knotted hair was bent over an exercise book, pencil frozen. Cutting through the silence from stage left, Glen's ten year-old nasal rasp took control.

'They're spazoids, Miss. Never leave the 'ouse.'

A suppressed giggle of culpability dominoed around the room. The harsh clatter of a lunch bell reverberated against a corrugated iron hoarding. Saved. They were off. Brown paper bags clutched in grubby hands. Tupper-ware containers tucked under smelly armpits. A waft of Vegemite and squashed banana trailed in their wake. A lone red-faced boy remained exposed at his desk. He uttered no sound. He cried no tears. Urine dripped down the chair leg, and puddled on the cracked linoleum.

Dryly clad in faded King-Gees from the storeroom, Robbie pushed the gate. Flakes of rusted iron fluttered down. We stood in front of an unkempt fibro house. The grass had gone to seed. A lank Easter Daisy splayed across the path. As Robbie led the way, I caught the flutter of net curtain. Splattered on the door, caked egg yolk was encrusted with shards of shell. Robbie turned the iron key. His shape filled the door frame.

My eyes took time to adjust to the gloom. A television screen spluttered in a far corner, a cascade of static. Two shapes stood beside a laminated kitchen table. Their eyes welded to Robbie's hands.The hands told who I was. The hands told why I was there. Patient. Eloquent. Robbie's hands responded to each guttural utterance; to each body jerk. They crafted the silence with tenderness, with respect. The hands conveyed understanding. The hands, in turn, were understood.

'Me Mum wants to know if you'd like a cuppa, Miss.'

Blood pounded through my inner ear, deafening the language for which I was desperate. In comparison with the hands, I was reduced to monosyllables.

Written in response to a prompt ('Softy-spoken bullets; Hardly-spoken lips') from the Tenth Daughter of Memory, a writers' collective

282. Morning has broken

There is a pleasure to fried eggs. Fried eggs over easy. Take a fork and plunge the tines into the heart of the yolk, the rich golden yolk in its curved sac. There is a piquant ooze. The golden yolk oozes over the smudged white of the albumen, and leaks into the crispy edge of sourdough, its heart open to the morning.

The rising sun wonders where to go, where to seep next, what now needs warmth and light in this little cafe clinging to the edge of Heeley Street. Just as these hands stand frozen, contemplating missed opportunity, contemplating a lost plan. Where to now for these hands, stranded in the morning sun? The yolk is but a golden smear, devoid of white. The mushrooms remain as they began, in their little huddle splattered with parsley, curly green shards of parsley.

A way through will be found, perhaps. Enjoy.

281. Home-cooked meals

Looking back, Mike cannot recall when he stopped having meals at home. Being single for longer than the average, it was easier to eat at the pub or the local Maccas. That food was as good as Mike could rustle up in his own lame excuse for a kitchen.

When Lucille came into his life - inexplicably, suddenly – Mike found himself waking up with the same old song on the gramophone. Cooking is a calling, a skill, a passion. If you aint got it, then leave the kitchen.

He and Lucille would shower and wander down to ‘the precinct’ to see what was open. Not for them Bircher Muesli or Couscous with roast potato and stringed English spinach. Not for them roasted beans from Toby’s Estate or Campos. They were simple folk, Mike and Lucille. Hamburger with the lot, folk.

And when Raelene came along, she fitted like a glove.

Hardly softly

Without so much
as a by-your-leave
it lodged in her brain.
Bent over the washing-up
before the Big Brother final
she didn't hear it knock -
the lodger.

Malware
facilitating unauthorised usage -
a trojan horse
by MI5
out of Mossad.
Dressed to kill
a geek bearing
the gift of death.

Cut it out.
Zap it out.
Nuke it out.
Before it oozes -
Before it multiplies -
into the folds of the cerebellum.

Dull eyes staring.
Dry eyes crying.

Younger than Christ.
Trust me -
there is no god.

Written in response to aprompt from the Tenth Daughter of Memory, a writers' collective
To M and JD - with respect

280. The red bike

For his eight birthday, Jason was given a shiny red bike by his grandparents. Jason had always wanted a bike, not necessarily a shiny red one, any old bike would do. Then he could go down the park with Cecile and Leon.

They had bikes already, did Cecile and Leon. Their bikes were not red, and they were no longer shiny. They rode them everywhere, up the track beside the stream, over the bridge to the shop for a chocolate paddle pop when the sun rose strong and mighty. Jason liked Cecile and Leon.

They let him join in, even before he had a bike. They taught him how to balance and how to steer. He learned to stand on the pedals going up a hill. He learned how not to cry when he came a buster.

Jason could not wait to take the shine off his new red bike.

279. Clarrie's living room

Clarrie was the third youngest of nine. His mother loved him very much. He was short and stocky with a shock of blonde curls. But he slipped through the cracks, did Clarrie. That can sometimes happen when there are nine and there are limited resources to stop up the cracks. So Clarrie slipped through early, and was well gone by the time he should have gone into high school.

Clarrie wandered along beneath the floor boards for a long time, he was a ‘borrower’ before Mary Norton ever created them, and besides, Clarrie grew up. He was dragged up really, along the rough edges of the street. Until he got to this place, this living room.

Clarrie’s living room is on the concourse outside Central Station. Many people share Clarrie’s living room, both as borrowers and lenders. The lenders have a van with hot soup. Clarrie is a life-long borrower.

278. Miss Scarlet in the Billiard Room with a Candlestick

Stealthily, Miss Scarlet picked her way down the rickety stair-case. In a reprobate kind of way, she was looking forward to this. Visions swayed before her of the heavy metal object coming into contact with the shining skull of her dull-witted, but terribly wealthy, father-in-law. Her heart fluttered, as her resolve strengthened.

Oh, to have done with it. To have him out of the way. To watch as tiny sprays of dark red blood, fanned across the alabaster plaster of his stuffy wood-panelled Billiard Room. In her haste, the terribly vain Miss Scarlet failed to remember the third stair from the bottom. A loud crack resounded up the stairwell and along the tiled foyer. Miss Scarlet froze, her heart pounding, her stomach heaving.

Flattened along the wall, she heard footsteps approach the heavily embossed door.

“Who’s there?’

With one mighty heave, Miss Scarlet laid the candlestick into his gleaming skull.

277. Hanging out his shingle

It was all the down time that annoyed Quentin. It was not like he was a road-worker with a shovel that needed propping, nor a bureaucrat with paperwork that needed shuffling. He was a Private Investigator and he demanded a murder that needed solving, a missing person that needed finding, a buxom blonde that needed seducing.

He took another drag on his no-name cigarette, downed the dregs of his whiskey sour, patted his rear pocket and took off, down the colonnade, behind the 378 just pulling into the Eddie Avenue stop and over to his serviced room.

As he spun his hat onto the stand, he noted the flashing red light on his landline. With a deft flick, as he eased himself out of his leather jacket,he started the tape.
‘Quentin, come quickly. I need ... aarrrgggghhhhh ... ‘

Yes, finally! A smile cleft Quentin’s face in two. Success beckons.

276. Here we go round the mulberry bush

The camera sweeps down low over the stationary man. He stands with coffee in hand. Beside him, dog waits patiently. He continues a gentle rocking of the stroller. Inside the stroller, one male child is refusing to respond appropriately. The camera backs off to observe this figure in context.

The afternoon eases into evening. But there is a problem here. Our camera is confused. It sees only men. Young men striding purposefully. Why are these young men in this suburban intersection, unaccompanied by young women? Where are all the mothers, and sisters, and aunts?

We zoom in searching for evidence to the contrary. The attentive whippet is accompanied by a small kelpie. Our eye is attracted by the red chairs in the background. Ah, two humans of the female variety and another child. Our eagle eye notes the beagle cleaning up scraps from the table.

God is in his heaven.